it actually feels blinded by the repetitions, as if the flow shrouds the meaning to the point where you are trying to assemble sight through fingertips for the first time. there is a deep sad resignation as if the narrator has after a few days of being blinded has accepted his "fate" in sounds of heart beats, and the soft scurry of spiders feet.

as viscous dusk enveloped me

to me gives the dark a liquid feel, thick syrupy as if you subverted the cliché "moving through molasses" and points toward the way being blinded stunts the way you have to move about slowing it all down.